They’d starting comin’, in the bundles, postcards received, after your death, you knew that you didn’t have much time left, and so, you’d started, writing out those postcards, to be mailed out to me, once every month, until I’m a grown man, at age eighteen…
Postcards received, years, after your death, when I first started receiving them, I felt odd, because, you’re already gone, and yet, how come I’m receiving these postcards by the month? I just couldn’t understand it, and, I couldn’t ask mom about it, because she still couldn’t talk about you without crying her eyes out, your death still hits her.
Postcards received, years, after your death, they’d become this sort of a milestone, that accompanied my growth cycles, I’d get one postcard per month from you, giving me the wisdoms you’d hoped to pass down to me about life, and, I’m sure, that you would’ve passed these wisdoms and values down to me in person, if you were here.
Postcards received, after your death, come to think of it, I hadn’t received one in such a long time, and so, I’d started, sorting through the cookie tin that was placed, out of the reach of my own children, up, on that topmost shelf of my study, and, as I’d, thumbed through these memories you didn’t get the chance to make with me, I’d come, to the realizations, of how strong your love was for me, and, even though it’s been years since you’d been gone, I could still, feel your gentle hand, patting me on the shoulder, telling me that I’d done a good job in life………
